Slash warning! Takes place in TSFT, the night that Gemma ignored Kartik at her window. Thanks to ThreeOranges for beta-ing! Enjoy...hehehe.
The fire crackles as I methodically feed kindling to it, ripping each dried leaf and twig into tiny pieces. Ithal sits near, next to me on a fallen log in the clearing where the horses rest for the night. A bottle of spirits sits between us, but I do not drink from it. My head is a mess of thoughts, conflicting emotions, and numbness. Gemma hates me, I think to myself. She'll never speak to me again. The idea is enough to bring tears to my eyes, but I blink them away.It's for the best. You can do her no more harm now. Even still, she haunts my thoughts. Her figure appears in the fire's dancing flames. Golden-red hair swirls as she reaches pale arms out to me. Kartik, she says. Come to me. I briefly consider throwing myself into the fire to please her.
Yes, I'll come to you, Gemma dearest, I think bitterly, but the apparition does not fade. Tonight's encounter replays itself differently, more favorably. Her window appears, white-hot and quivering, framing Gemma in its fiery boundaries. She spies me below with my lantern and smiles happily, an incandescent Juliet and her combusting Romeo. I climb the ivy into her room and we burst into flames, licking and consuming each other like kindling. Kartik!She cries my name in passion. Kartik!
"Kartik?" Ithal watches me with curiosity as I start at his voice.
"Yes?" I ask tersely, for I was quite content to remain in my scintillating fantasy.
"You were not blinking. I thought you might have fallen asleep."
"With my eyes open?"
"I would not be surprised; you are a mysterious person," Ithal says with a bemused smile. I wish I could find comfort in his friendliness, but I find I cannot. The only warmth I want is from a certain redhead whose temper lives up to her hair color. I wonder if she'll ever forgive me, not that she has a reason to. I lied to her; betrayed her. My mouth is tugged downward childishly at the corners, and Ithal waves a hand towards the spirits. "Drink," he suggests.
"No."
When I was a boy in the schoolroom, history was my favorite subject. I was equally fascinated and horrified by the tales of war and torture and vengeance and would read for hours about Spartans and Crusaders and Vandals, vividly picturing scenes of destruction and demise, imagining what it'd be like to partake in such battles. Instead of admiring the strong, I sympathized with the weak, placing myself in their position in my imagination. When other boys my age thought innocently about foxhunts or civil gunfights, playing the admirable admiral, I was whipped for stealing, beaten for lying, and burned at the stake for witchcraft. I had a very vivid imagination, if not a bit masochistic, but I never once imagined those things could ever happen to me.
I have experienced torture. I know what it is like to be beaten and whipped within an inch of living. I've not been burned at the stake, but the agony of endless pain had me wishing to be. My only crime was loyalty, a virtue bred into me with ten years of careful training, though ten long years still couldn't undo what I was born with – loyalty of the heart, not mind. My life was lived underwater, submerged in all things Rakshana – glory, power, honor. I was quite content to tread there, until Amar's death made me aware that I was drowning, had me swimming for the surface, kicking with all of my might. Dry land found me wet and bedraggled, torn between what was familiar and what was destiny. I got to know Gemma, and she made me feel a warmth I'd never known. The last traces of Rakshana dried and vanished from me; what good is glory, power, and honor with no one to share it with?
I nearly died for Gemma. I was tortured until even my sanity could not bear the stench of my blood on the walls, or the thought of my own tears running down my cowardly visage. She knows this; she knows it all - the six days of pure agony, the months of recovery, the nightmares that haunt me even now…and this is how she treats me?
I do not realize how hard I've been grasping the stick in my hand until I feel the hot trickle of blood on my wrist. With a growl, I throw the blasted twig into the fire and wipe my aching palm on my cloak, where I don't care if it stains. Perhaps Gemma will see it and be reminded of the suffering I've gone through at her expense, her own private martyr for a cause I've no longer any place in.
Ithal catches my eye and I relent to his silent persuasion, knowing he understands exactly the sort of trouble in my heart. The first few sips of the drink burn me, something I've never felt from spirits before. I cough and sputter, grasping at my throat, certain I must be dying. I'm on fire, I think in awe. This is it; I'm burning alive. And then the terrible sensation recedes, numbing my lips and tongue on its way out through Hell's door. Ithal is laughing, so I drink more to silence him, fueling another inferno in my throat. The fire eventually burns out, and like a phoenix, I rise from the ashes, loose-limbed and light-headed.
"Do you feel any better?" Ithal asks, and I know that he speaks of my heart.
"She doesn't appreciate me," I blurt out, for apparently my lips have lost their discretion.
"They never do," he says softly, staring into the fire. I wonder if he sees Miss Worthington there in the flames, though I imagine if she was, the fire would freeze over. How could Gemma ever be friends with a girl cold enough to treat Ithal like a toy, and me as a sacrifice? Perhaps that is my answer for why Gemma acts the way she does towards me, like a friend, but only on her terms. I thought she was different, but she can't be, not if she can close her eyes to the evils of the world and turn her back on those who care the most. Ithal and I are good men, yet we are treated like playthings. But why? What is it about us specifically that drives them to hurt us? I doubt Gemma would ever treat Simon Middleton with such contempt.
"Do they think they're better than us?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Because we're not English?"
"Yes."
"How is that any fair?"
"It isn't. They're taught early on to respect only each other."
"No," I say, thinking of Gemma's Indian upbringing. "Not mine." I cringe inwardly at referring to Gemma as belonging to me. If she is anything of mine, it is my constant headache, my constant heartache, the all-around ache that has plagued my body for months. If this is what love is like, I don't want it. It's not worth it for the brief pleasurable encounters. Gemma and I will never have peace; there will always be tension between us, and I'm not sure if I can handle it, though I certainly want to.
I've now spilled more of my heart to Ithal than I ever have before. Our previous encounters consisted solely of teaching me the ways of the camp and perhaps a cricket match or two. I've never been much of a talker outside the company of Amar and now Gemma, but the spirits have me in need of some sympathy.
"They live in a fantasy world, my friend," he says, and it is all I can do to keep from laughing bitterly at the irony. "They flit around from flower to flower, sucking out our energy until we're left wanting something in return. Then they never come back."
My chest constricts painfully at this. Is that it then? Will Gemma never come back to me? I know Ithal speaks of Miss Worthington, who is nothing like Gemma. Gemma and I understand each other; what could Ithal and that maniacal blonde really have in common other than the obvious physical attraction? No, Gemma and I have more than that, a bond that transcends lust (though includes it as well).
Then why has she ignored the good you have done for her? The sacrifices, the nightmares, the torture?
An unexpected rage claws its way up my chest at the thought of Gemma Doyle and her English friends traipsing in the realms, while others like me suffer in the darkness. I'm nothing but a pawn in her game, someone to do the hard work so she won't get her pretty little hands dirty. And my reward for such good behavior? A kiss here and there, and the honest belief that perhaps she cared for me, though this cannot possibly be true. I wonder what her friends have ever done for her, yet she chooses them over me.
"You're right, Ithal," I say hollowly.
He nods emphatically. "Women are all one in the same, united against us."
"Yes." I drink more from the bottle, but I'm numb to the fire now. "But why? They do not treat their fathers and brothers this way."
"Ah, but they do!"
"Do they?
"My friend, have you not noticed?" Ithal's eyes are twinkling. "Do you not see the secrets between them? How they flush and giggle at seemingly nothing? Girls are a different breed, Kartik; they treatall men like dogs." He drinks deeply from the bottle and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's a shame that we need them."
I nod in agreement. "The ancient Greeks…" I frown, thinking of what I was about to say. I've read in Homer that it wasn't uncommon for two men to love each other as a man and a woman would, but I can't possibly say this aloud. Suddenly, the atmosphere changes and I do not like it.
Ithal regards me curiously. "What about the ancient Greeks?"
My mind flits around, searching for something relevant to say. "There was a poet named Sappho. She and her female followers enjoyed each other's company only."
"You mean they…" He makes rough gestures with his hands that bring smiles to both our faces. "Together?"
"No men," I agree.
"So then what did the men do to keep busy?"
"Not all women were–,"
"Did they keep to themselves as well?"
"Some did, yes," I say before I can lie. Through the drunken cloud of my mind, I cannot understand the taboo of such a thing, though I know in my heart that it is not quite right. The characters in Homer's stories make it seem an honorable thing, like a deep friendship between two males, a bond others do not understand – the sort of bond I had hoped was between Gemma and me.
Ithal wrinkles his nose in distaste. "I often thought that Felicity was not quite right. She spoke often of her friend, the dark-haired beauty." He catches sight of my expression. "Do not worry my friend; she never spoke of your redhead." The mention of Gemma turns my mood sour again. Ithal laughs bitterly. "Don't let one of them get to you. They are nothing but trouble."
Is that what makes a fine girl, then? A lack of trouble? Gemma appears in the fire again, folding her arms over her chest. My heart aches at the memory. "I love her," I whisper softly.
"I thought I loved Felicity too. It was not the case. Love is not hiding, nor is it so much pain."
Hiding, pain, lying – that is all what my relationship with Gemma is. There is no love between us, only lies. To think I endured torture for her only to suffer more at her hands. "No. It isn't."
There is pity in Ithal's eyes as he claps a hand on my back to comfort me. "You don't need her."
"I don't," I say hollowly.
"The English girls treat us like pets."
"They do."
"We won't be trained."
"We won't." I frown. My confusion at his logic far exceeds the discomfort I feel at Ithal's nearness. There is something about the stillness of the night, the intimacy of the clearing, the alcohol in my veins, that quickens my heartbeat. I wish with all my heart that Gemma was here instead. Ithal is so earnest in his quest to ease my heartache… The story of Achilles and Patroclus, the ancient Greek heroes, flashes in my mind. Achilles was the healer, but they both took care of each other.
"I once saw Miss Worthington bludgeon a deer to death in the ravine," I tell Ithal. I watch his golden eyes flicker and harden. "She's no better than a witch."
A small smile plays on his lips, something I notice better than I should. "The women of my camp speak of your redhead," he says. "They say she is a witch. She should be burned at the stake." I'd rather burn for her, I think wistfully.
The wind shifts again, and the fire grows as new logs are set aflame. I turn to watch the fire, for though it is too bright, it is easier to watch than Ithal. My heads spins with spirits and my skin aches for cold water to be thrown upon it, anything to distract me from his eyes, and the way I do not fear them upon me. His hand brushes my bare forearm. "You are sad again."
"I'm not."
"We don't need them."
He and I, he means. We don't need them. Who is them? Gemma and Miss Worthington? Or…all women?
I cannot say what demon takes over my body, but the words that escape me are not mine. "I know," I hear myself saying. "We don't."
And then Ithal's lips are upon mine, tasting of spirits and…tears? I find myself prying his lips open with my tongue, curious to know if he had also shed tears. He had. He pulls me to him roughly, a low snarl of a moan ripping through the innocent crackling of the campfire. A pleasurable ache forms in the pit of my belly. I would never consider myself an expert on sexual matters, but I know my own body well, and I am surprised to find that it's reacting this way. A cautious glance downward confirms that he feels it too; this knowledge resonates with panic somewhere in my conscious, but Ithal's tongue is far too fast for me to pay attention to anything else. Part of me wants quite badly to stop, but the more insistent inner voice is curious, and wonders what would happen if Gemma were to stumble upon us.
Gemma! A strangled cry escapes my lips, which Ithal mistakes for something else. We roll off the fallen tree trunk to the ground, where we wrestle for the sole purpose of introducing agonizing friction to all of the right places. Nothing more than gymnastics, I try to convince myself. Men did this all throughout history.
Ithal pulls away and crouches above me, reaching to unbutton his shirt. Bells of panic ring louder in my foggy brain, for I don't want this. "Are you mad?" I grab him by the shirt collar and pull him back down. "Someone might see you!" And then he is back upon me, kissing with a renewed fervor as I thrust my hips up into his, for it feels too good not to. A moan erupts from my mouth, unbidden, and I despise myself for it. It is not Ithal that makes you this way… Yes, I can believe that. I give Ithal a hard shove and wrestle him beneath me, shaking loose the dirt and leaves that had gathered in my hair. His gold eyes glitter lasciviously as he watches me closely, wondering what I will do now that I'm the dominant one.
I do nothing. Ithal reaches for the sinful evidence of my desire and I force his hands away. He pushes my hands back and tries his advances again, grinning in a way that somehow reminds me of Gemma, though I know there is no resemblance between them at all. Memories of Gemma flood my mind; I close my eyes and let Ithal's hands pass, wishing I could take the roughness of his touch and turn it to the softness of hers. I imagine the heat of the body pinned beneath me to be her, her mouth pliant and willing against mine. We settle into a rhythm, grinding against one another, panting and moaning until I can't take it anymore. "I love her!" I gasp, realizing at once that it is Ithal beneath me, not Gemma. It is too late to call back my climax, and I let out a cry of anguish and pleasure, followed closely by one of Ithal's.
I disentangle myself from him at once, rolling to a spot of cold ground that hasn't been violated. Ithal breathes heavily, and I glare at him with contempt, feeling very much like I've been tricked. He knew that I'd use him as Gemma, but did he put Miss Worthington in my place? What if he didn't?
Ithal turns his head and regards me sadly. "Do you see? We don't need them."
"You're wrong," I say icily. "Perhaps you don't, butI do." Then I am up and running for my tent, not even bothering to brush myself off.
When the morning sunlight rouses me awake, I rise and dress immediately, unsure of what to do with myself. I'm weighted down with guilt and shame, on top of the sodden emotions I felt prior to last night's experience. I wonder if it even really happened, for it seems too bizarre to be true.
The day passes with the air of a dream, cold and distant. Gemma does not come to the camp, nor do I seek her on the lawns of Spence. I spend my time telling myself that last night never happened – it couldn't have; I do not have such feelings for any men, let alone Ithal. But then we cross paths. He avoids my gaze and stalks away, muttering to himself, and I know in my heart that it happened. I catch bits of his fevered conversation with himself. "Unclean. Curse upon the camp. Burn. Sinner." He disappears into the woods, carrying Freya's saddle and bridle, and that is the last time I ever see him alive.
He does not show up for days, and when he does, he is pale with death. To my great surprise, I partly feel relief; I shall never have to worry about anyone knowing of our secret, but it came at such a high price. And so I bow my head with guilt and remorse as his body is pulled from the lake, my friend, who cared maybe just a bit too much to right the wrongs in our world. We don't need them, he said, and I suppose he is right in some sense. Why should anyone need the company of those that oppress them? It is an unjust world we live in, and it has always been.
"You must build the fire. Burn him. Burn everything," Mother Elena addresses the rest of her camp, and I realize that every cause, no matter how small or personal, has a martyr.
Ooh, I'm bad!!! Hope you liked it! (Just so you know, they didn't actually have sex. There was no nudity involved...only erm, grinding?) And NO, I don't actually think this happened, so don't complain if you don't like it! (But you KNOW it was kind of, well - really hot.)
Almost turned this into lemon meringue pie,
LunaEquus
PLEASE REVIEW!!!!! Or else dead!Ithal will stumble upon the tree!Kartik and FINISH WHAT HE STARTED!